Lincoln started toward the bus stop, buildings blazing bright in the hot shimmer of the sun. He walked as fast as his legs could carry him, the world on fire.
Fight the white man!
Lincoln didn’t turn around. Moved with determined splashing strides. A billboard looming above the roof of the Walgreen’s across the street read Jesus Is Lord over Our City beneath an illustration of a big white Jesus with one hand raised as if taking a vow, being sworn in, the other hand placed over his heart. But Lincoln did not slow his pace for a better look. He had a client to meet, Mrs. Frieda Lead. He didn’t own a car. Public transportation afforded him the opportunity to study ordinary people firsthand. He quickened his step, shirt sticking to his skin as he moved under the torch of the sun.
He made it to the Metro stand just as the bus came grinding down the middle of Washington Boulevard. It banked sharply, brakes squealing. A decal taped to the windshield greeted all boarding passengers: a white hand and a black hand jointly holding the two ends of a red valentine heart, words penned in black letters across its center—The Love Bus.
The doors squeaked open. Step onto the Love Bus, the driver said. Lincoln boarded the vehicle and slipped a silver dollar into the fare box. The driver cut the bus into the center of the boulevard, throwing Lincoln’s feet out from under him. He struggled to keep his balance.
Welcome to the Love Bus. At the sound of my voice, the time will be eight thirty-five.
Are you trying to be funny?
No, sir. Folks don’t like to be late. Tall, almost a giant, the driver sat cramped down in his seat, leaning forward over the big steering wheel. Excluding his pop eyes, he was well built and handsome. About Lincoln’s age.
You can get hurt that way, Lincoln said. He sat down in the seat perpendicular to the driver’s.
And I can get hurt getting out of bed too, but that don’t mean it’s gon happen.
Lincoln’s throat clogged with words. His whole body tightened.
The driver watched the traffic but held Lincoln in the corner of his eye.
You’re a wise guy, Lincoln said.
Folks don’t like to be late. I have a job to do.
Lincoln read the driver’s nameplate: ULYSSES TUBMAN. I’ll tell you what, Ulysses, Lincoln said.
The driver gave Lincoln a quick full look.
Don’t talk to me, and I won’t talk to you.
The driver tightened his grip on the steering wheel. God bless you, he said.
Lincoln noticed that the driver had propped one of his novels, Hard Rock’s Hole in One, in the space between the windshield and dashboard, but Lincoln suppressed any glow of recognition. You’re lucky I’m in a good mood today, he said.
God bless you, the driver said.
Stupid bastard. He scouted out the other passengers. Two girls sat a few seats behind the driver. The first day of spring found them in bicycle pants and sleeveless T-shirts, their skin like melted caramel under the sunlight. They wore the latest haircuts, one girl completely bald on the right side of her head, thick corn rolls trailing down the left, the other girl bald on her left, corn rolls on her right. An older woman sat a few seats behind them, sharp in a full-length black dress, with a prim white bow at the neck, stockings, and pumps. A sporty tam mushroomed above her head, white hair spilling out from under it like melting snow. Granny, you must have been fine in your day. A white man lay curled up in the seat at the rear of the bus, clutching the boomerang-shaped collar of his winter coat. Some of these poor white trash are worse than the lowest niggers and all their low sorry ways. Lincoln watched the two girls, every movement, every gesture.
Tall, skinny, and knock-kneed, twelve-year-old Mary lived a few houses down from Lincoln—a year older—in the John Henry Homes development, a tidy block of two-flat government housing projects with grass clean enough to eat. Lincoln tried to woo her with sugary gifts of Now and Laters, strawberry pop, barbecue potato chips, licorice, salted sunflower seeds. When this didn’t work, he wrote her poems and letters in the solitude of his room. On a day when he found the courage, he followed her home from school, read snatches of red words.
Mary laughed and laughed. You so corny.
Another day, he pulled out his dick and shook it at her.
Ugh. You so nasty. She kissed him, working her tongue.
They rushed over to her house, since her parents were away laboring for bread and keep.
I don’t want no baby, she said. She wriggled her dress down over her hips.
In the darkness of her room, the bed creaked and her moans crackled in Lincoln’s ears. Perhaps his piston-rhythm piston weight was breaking and crushing her bones, but he didn’t stop until he came. Holy Father! he shouted.
Ugh. You peeing in me, Mary said. She pushed him off her. Left the room and returned, lickety-split, with her German shepherd, a beast with teeth like jagged cliffs. Lincoln finished zipping his pants. Mary pointed at him. Frankenstein, sic! But Lincoln had already started for the door. He proved faster than the dog.
Lincoln could still feel Mary’s kiss burning on his lips.
Cool air blew through the bus, which had taken on a little speed, tires humming. Frieda Lead lived in Crescent Hills, at the very end of the boulevard, an interracial suburb with smoothly paved streets, gravel drives, trees on low hills, mowed lawns, and trimmed hedges. The bus traveled a perfect loop, so that, later, Lincoln had only to cross to the other side of the boulevard for the return ride home.
Niece, did you see what was on the flo of the bathroom yesterday? the first girl said.
Um-huh. Girl, who would leave something like that on the flo? the second girl replied.
The white man came from the back of the bus with a funny little walk: one shoulder down, then the other, hands stuffed in the pockets of his winter coat. The old woman pinched her nose as he passed. He sat down in the seat directly behind the first girl, who was closest to the aisle. Both girls spun in their seats.
Whatever was on that floor, the white man said, couldn’t have been as ugly as your goddamn face.
Who you talkin to, gray? the first girl said.
I’m talkin to you, bitch!
Ut-oh, Niece. I’m gon cut this mudda fudda! She rose with switchblade swiftness and reached for something in the back pocket of her bicycle pants.
Nancy, be cool!
Lincoln bounded out of his seat and seized the girl’s hand. It was hot. And soft. Take it easy, ma’am.
She tried to twist free of his grip. Let me go.
Please, ma’am. He’s not worth it. Her skin was soft. And hot.
You better let me go. Nobody calls me a bitch.
He right, Nancy. Be cool.
He’s not worth it.
Fuck you! the white man said to Lincoln.
Lincoln glared at him. He reeked of sweat, his hair matted like wet fur. He wasn’t as old as Lincoln had thought; in fact, they could have been the same age. Fine skin fleshed out a face where green eyes shone through dirt like exotic gems. I suggest you find another seat, Lincoln said. He released the girl’s wrist but held her in the corner of his eye.
The white man sprang to his feet, like ice water had been spilled on his back. He was small but solid. As he and Lincoln squared off, his face grew hard, eyes flooding, changing color, two pools of swirling blood.
Find a seat or I’ll knock you into one, Lincoln said. He was on the edge of a great venture. He would leap over the gulf in his life.
Come on. The white man crouched low and raised his fists.
Lincoln showed him two sets of hard knuckles. I think you’d better get off the bus.
The white man maintained his crouch. Lincoln squeezed his fist and cracked his knuckles, mimicking the terrifying sound of some powerful force crushing steel. The white man pulled himself upright, fists raised. I’ll fight you, he said, even though you ain’t my size. Lincoln moved forward. The white man pop-locked in fear and fled to the rear exit of the bus. Leave me alone or I’ll jump, he said. Lincoln too
k a step toward him. He jumped.
Gawd, Nancy said. You see that crazy white fool?
Um-huh, Niece said.
The bus screeched to a halt, throwing everyone forward. Lincoln regained his balance and walked with the slow certainty of a meter maid to the rear exit, where he stepped into the jumper’s ghostly residue, thick stink. The near-giant driver came down the aisle, head bent to avoid hitting the roof of the bus. He looked at Lincoln, pop eyes swelling in anger. What the fuck is going on back here?
The old woman looked at Lincoln. He forced a paying passenger to jump from the bus, she said. The wrinkles in her face twitched like live wires.
Nawl, that white fool jumped from the bus, Nancy said.
My God! the driver said. He rushed to the rear exit, shoving Lincoln aside.
Yeah, Niece said. He called her a bitch, and this dude—she pointed at Lincoln—came back here to see what the deal was. The driver had already exited the bus.
Why don’t you just shut your mouth, the woman said.
Make me. You ain’t my mamma.
True, but I’ll still slap the shit out of you.
Niece didn’t say anything. Neither did Nancy.
Lincoln moved to a window. A crowd had gathered. The driver stood over the white man, who lay crumpled in the street.
I’m hurt, the white man said.
Right, the driver said.
I’m hurt!
The driver looked at him. I’ll give you some hurt, he said. The wind moved over his shirt and the shirt over his muscles.
Okay, okay, the white man said. Help me up! He extended his arms, and the driver pulled him to his feet—an acrobatic routine. Easy, brother, the white man said. The driver gave him a look. Using both hands, he brushed the white man’s coat free of dust, and the lucky recipient responded like some grim clown by snapping the creases in the driver’s pants. The driver gave him a look. Then the white man spotted Lincoln and gave him the finger. The driver shoved the white man forward. Get on the bus. They forced a path through the crowd, dust clouds whirling behind them, and got back on the bus. The white man sat down in Lincoln’s vacated seat, cuts, welts, and red half-moons mapping his face.
Hear ye, hear ye, the driver said. At the sound of my voice the time will be eight forty-five. Welcome to the Love Bus.
That scanlous white man, Nancy said.
Shit, Niece said.
Lincoln was heading directly for the white man when he spotted one of his novels, Hot Nights and Napalm, on Nancy’s lap.
Excuse me, ma’am, Lincoln said.
What you want? She was still angry.
Let me introduce myself, ma’am.
Why bother.
Nancy, you need to quit.
I didn’t catch your name, ma’am.
Why don’t you go catch a truck.
Niece snickered.
You fast gals can get hurt talking to me like that, Lincoln said.
Mister, you better sit down, the old woman under the tam said. She had her hand on something bulging inside her purse.
Ain’t gon be no mo shit on my bus! the driver screamed. He was watching Lincoln in his rearview mirror, pop eyes straining like water-filled balloons. Either you find a seat, or I’m callin the police.
You have a witness in me, the old woman said. My name is Barbara Bleach Breedlove.
Okay, the driver said.
That’s Barbara Bleach Breedlove.
Lincoln gave her his meanest look.
Sir, you better keep your eyes where they belong.
I’m not bothering you, granny.
And you better watch how you speak to me, or I’ll come over there and beat you like a bald-headed stepchild.
Lincoln spit out a laugh.
Okay now, the driver said.
Lincoln didn’t want any trouble. The driver might be every bit as powerful as he was ugly. He slipped forward and took the seat at the rear of the bus. Felt something cold settle in his stomach.
It’s been a pleasure doing business with you, the old woman said.
Amused, the driver shook his head.
The girls snickered, their shaved-braided heads moving as one. Lincoln just sat there. The white man winked a green eye at him.
Smirking and grinning, the girls exited the bus at the James Madison Public Academy. Lincoln noticed that Niece was also carrying one of his novels—spread the news: three sightings in less than an hour, in one location—Brave and Tender.
A few blocks later, the old woman rose to exit. She looked at Lincoln. Didn’t nobody learn you nothing?
Well, granny, you sure didn’t.
Just one more word, the driver said. He watched Lincoln in the mirror.
Lord, give me the strength so I won’t have to hurt nobody today. The old lady’s hair was so white under the sun that Lincoln’s eyes began to hurt. Old-ass granny. She adjusted her white bow and rolled her own eyes at him as she exited. The white man went behind her. Brother, you have some ugly shoes, he said. He gave Lincoln the finger. White trash. Lincoln sat in silence.
The bus hummed to the bridge that separated Crescent Hills from the city proper. Lincoln saw rippling water beneath. Little by little, his death took shape. This morning, he would seduce Frieda Lead—We’re in this together, ma’am, you and me, the same—then catch the bus back to the city. Under the lingering sweetness of his conquest, he would swagger down Congress Avenue. See the traffic cop again. At a chain bookstore he would purchase a copy of Judy Chicago’s The Dinner Party. Once home, he would disrobe and retire to his bedroom to make careful study of the book’s glossy and finely reproduced illustrations of postmodern vaginas. It would take him some time to emerge from this papery maze, satisfied and at ease with his discoveries. He would record the day’s events in his diary—Frieda Lead: she moved me—work on his new novel, with little success, then go out for a walk and chance upon a flyer circulated by FUSION. Deck a white boy. Chase the speeding boy down Washington Boulevard. (His smell lingering. Jet trail. Never seen anyone run so fast.) Chance upon the billboard Jesus for the second time that day. See Jesus shake his head. Return home in the last shimmer of day. (Lamps already lit along the alleyways.) Receive an anonymous phone call: Brother, your days are numbered. The next morning, he would read the Daily Observer, see his brother’s name, rush into the elevator and out the building onto the expressway. Never before had the sun shone so bright.
II
Frieda Lead lived in a small range house with a big picture window, like all the others extending along both sides of the street. Lincoln stood for a moment where her lawn began, observing the house, sun falling hot and bright on his face. Only then did he come to note that his skin had completely tanned. Several quick steps carried him forward. Walked up three short brick steps and pressed the doorbell, then stood waiting in the cool shade of the porch. His damp shirt set him to worrying, kicked up that rare emotion, fear. What if I stink? He waited a few more seconds, pressed the buzzer again.
Who is it?
Mrs. Lead? Mrs. Frieda Lead?
Yes?
Sorry to disturb you, ma’am. But I’m here on urgent business.
Who?
I need to talk to you about your husband.
What?
I am the General.
What?
I’m here on urgent business relating to your husband.
No response.
Mrs. Lead? He heard fingers at the peephole on the other side of the door. Ma’am?
Yes?
I must talk with you about your husband.
Are you a reporter?
No, ma’am. A friend.
There followed a long moment of silence.
Ma’am? He heard her fingers turning the locks. She opened the door, the chain still on, and stuck her face in the crack. What’s this about?
I think I should speak to you inside, ma’am, in private. He looked around as if he were being followed. No other presence, nothing but the light, glare.
A
nother moment of silence, of watching and waiting.
My husband?
Yes, ma’am.
You’re the author?
Yes, ma’am. If you’ll allow me to explain. He placed the wedding photograph her husband had sent him where she could see it.
She shut the door, released the chain, then threw the door wide open. Please come in.
Thank you, ma’am. Inside it was cool and dark. I’m sorry if I upset you.
She took him by the elbow and led him to the couch. They both sat down. She took the photograph.
He wrote something on the back of it, ma’am.
She flipped it over and read the letter, then looked casually at Lincoln.
Yes, ma’am. He sent it to me.
I’ll always recognize his handwriting. Emmanuel dotted his t’s. She was silent for a moment, studying the letter. Good Lord, I’m forgetting my manners. Can I get you some breakfast?
No, thank you, ma’am. But I will take a glass of water. The new and dimmer setting had yet to cool his skin.
I’ll get you a glass. She placed the photograph on the coffee table in front of them.
Thank you, ma’am. Eyes still aching from the glare outside, he was unable to see clearly—Frieda a blur that rose from the couch and left the room—having only enough vision to take in and admire her healthy behind. He noticed a copy of the wedding picture framed in oak on the table. He continued to look about, could just make out the face of a white Jesus on the wall. That much certain.
Holy Father, Lincoln began, are you interested in my salvation?
What’s that?
Lincoln hadn’t heard her enter. She set the glass of water on the table before him and sat down at one end of the sofa, he at the other, but it was a small sofa, and they were sitting close.
I was speaking to the Holy Father, ma’am.
Praise Jesus, she said.
Praise Jesus, Lincoln said. He looked at the framed photograph. You have my condolences. He drank the water in two rhythmic gulps. It was cool and clean.
Would you like another glass?
Holding Pattern Page 8
